The Night Tiger(25)

For an instant, I was tempted to come clean. I’d already fulfilled my obligation to the salesman’s family. But I no longer had the finger; if Shin had destroyed it, this man might be furious. Hedging, I said, “What does it look like?”

“It’s my ancestor’s finger from China that’s been in our family for generations. My friend borrowed it last week. He said he’d lost it here.”

“A finger?” I tried to look surprised, even horrified. He watched me carefully. I wondered if he was lying. According to the salesman’s wife, her husband had possessed the finger for the last three months. “I’ll ask around for you.”

“Let me know,” he said, staring intently. “You can leave a message for me here.” He scribbled down the address of a coffee shop on Leech Street together with a name: Mr. Y. K. Wong.

“If you find it, I’ll give you a reward. For sentimental reasons.” He smiled his sharp-toothed smile.

After that, he danced with several other girls, who later confirmed that he’d asked them the same questions: if they were called Ji Lin, and if they’d picked anything up, though nothing about missing fingers. I recalled the way he’d made a beeline over to me as soon as he’d entered and a shiver traced the back of my neck.

“I’m surprised you came in today,” said Rose, fanning herself vigorously during an intermission, while the band drank soda water and mopped their brows. Despite the face powder, her forehead was almost as shiny as the parquet dance floor, and I was sure that I was no better.

“I need the money.”

“If that’s the case,” said Rose, “want to make extra?”

I shook my head. “No call-outs.”

Call-outs were when a man would book a girl outside the dance hall, ostensibly to take her shopping or to eat a meal. They were lucrative, but everything came, of course, with a price. I’d explained to the Mama from the very first that I wouldn’t do them. The incident today with Mr. Y. K. Wong, if that was really his name, reminded me just how vulnerable I felt with a stranger. And we hadn’t even been alone—we’d been dancing in full view of dozens of people.

“It’s not a call-out. I have this client who asked me if I could find a few girls to dance at a private party. And he promised, no hanky-panky.”

“There’s no such thing as a private party with no hanky-panky.”

Rose smiled. “What a grandma you are! I wasn’t too keen, either, so I told him we’d have to get the dance-hall Mama’s permission—to put him off, you know. But he went and asked her and she said yes!”

“She did?” I had a hard time believing this.

“Well, she’ll get a nice commission, and she said she’d send one of the bouncers with us and hire a car. They want four or five girls because there are lots of bachelors and they want to dance. It’ll be in Batu Gajah.”

I paused. “At the hospital?” If it was, I couldn’t go. I’d no intention of revealing my seedy part-time job to Shin.

“No, a private residence in Changkat.”

I’d heard of Changkat, a prime residential area situated uphill of Batu Gajah. “Does that mean they’ll be foreigners?”

“Do you mind?”

Most of the customers at the May Flower were locals though there were always some Europeans in the mix. Not as many as at the glamorous Celestial Hotel, but a fair smattering on any given afternoon. They were mostly planters or civil servants, servicemen, and policemen. I’d danced with a few myself, though to be honest, they made me nervous.

But that explained the Mama’s swift acquiescence, as well as the extras like a bouncer and a hired car.

“Hui will come, too, and it pays double.”

That would be enough to cover what I’d missed. And if Hui, who was always so canny about taking care of herself, was willing to go, then I would as well.



* * *



By the time I’d finished work, the orange sun was low on the horizon. Pearl and Rose did the evening shift, so I was alone when I left by the May Flower’s back door. I didn’t know how they managed to stay on their feet for so many hours, but they would dance on till past midnight.

Pearl had a son, and Rose two little girls. Did the children wait for them to come home, watching the oil lamp burn down in the darkness? If my mother hadn’t remarried, that might have been my fate as well, though I couldn’t imagine her working in a dance hall. She was too timid, too gullible. Even now she’d managed to run up debts from simply playing mahjong. I wondered, for the hundredth time, whether she’d really lost all those games or had been cheated.

When it was all paid off, I’d save up and train to be a teacher. It didn’t matter what my stepfather thought. I was sure that eventually he’d rather have me out of the way than deal with a spinster at home. Besides, I’d said I wouldn’t get married, even though my mother had started nudging me towards matchmakers. The promise I’d made with Shin, so long ago when we were children whispering in his room, still held true. I didn’t see what marriage could do for me, especially if the one I’d wanted was going to marry someone else.

But there was no point hoping for Ming anymore, though in my most evil moments I imagined his fiancée deserting him. Or perhaps he’d suddenly realize he’d made a terrible mistake and propose to me instead. I pictured him coming up the dusty street on his heavy black bicycle, his unruly hair standing up. “Ji Lin,” he’d say, looking embarrassed yet serious in his bookish way, “I have to talk to you.” And I’d come running—no, walking demurely down the stairs—and listen with a beating heart. But at this point, I always ran out of steam even though I managed to think of lots of quite good things for Ming to say. It simply wouldn’t happen. He’d never looked at me the way I’d seen him gaze at his fiancée.